


And Now, it's Time to Leave and Turn to Dust

by DetectiveRoboRyan



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia, Fire Emblem: Shin Monshou no Nazo | Fire Emblem: New Mystery of the Emblem
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Closure, Family, Femslash, Fluff, Follow-up to my last gennyest piece, Found Family, Gen, Sisters, but shes a v present part of est's drama here, genny's not in this that much actually, roman numerals, sister relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-02 22:17:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12735405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DetectiveRoboRyan/pseuds/DetectiveRoboRyan
Summary: During and after the Archanean War of Heroes, Est has some things left unfulfilled back home-- but Valentia and the love she left behind weigh heavy on her mind and on her heart.XXVI-XXIX





	And Now, it's Time to Leave and Turn to Dust

**Author's Note:**

> its 4:30 in the goddamn mornign why did i think staying up this late to finish this was a good idea

XXIV.  
  
Est celebrates her eighteenth birthday in Archanea, surrounded by the friends she knew during the last war. Her sisters get her a dense little cake from her favorite bakery in the city near the army base, and it's good. Things are good— they're still at war, of course, but it's good. Except for the getting captured part, but at this point it's kind of a given. Maybe Est's just an easy target.  
  
Commander Minerva, when there's a lull between marches, gets her fitted for a new set of armor. Pegasus knights have never gone armored that heavily, historically, but Est's too tall for her old breastplate to fit right, and Minerva mutters to herself about what it means that she has to get armor tailored for growing teenagers while the tailor measures height (an impressive six-foot-four), bust, waist, arm length, bicep, inseam, and some other things Est didn't know were necessary (or real) until just then.  
  
The armor's steel— always steel, always painted white with golden trim and red leathers underneath. Always measured and fitted and hammered and re-hammered because Commander Minerva Drakon expects nothing less for her Whitewings and she expects nothing less from the chunks of her salary she invests in seeing her unit well-outfitted. It's sturdy, and it'll keep her warm in the sky— it's perfect.  
  
The armor, Minerva insists, is because she needed a set that fit, not because it was her birthday. The birthday part comes later, when Minerva asks her if she wants it personalized and Est says yes before she can protest because she knows it'll cost more— and once she's said yes she can't go back. So she asks for a heart carved over her left breast, inlaid with the same golden-colored steel as the trim in her white steel and the filigree in Minerva's famous scarlet plate. Minerva asks her why when they're on the way back from the trip, with Est's new armor in a padded crate Minerva's carrying on one massive shoulder. (Commander Minerva is probably the single biggest person on the planet.)  
  
"'Cause," Est shrugs. "I'm in love, that's why."  
  
"I see," Minerva says. "Love is a good thing to be in."  
  
"You're not gonna ask who?" Est asks, quirking an eyebrow.  
  
Minerva shrugs with the shoulder not carrying the crate. "It's not my business."  
  
Est likes Minerva quite a bit. That's one of the reasons why.  
  
XXV.  
  
Abel hasn't changed much, in the two years Est's been apart from him. But it's Abel, and Abel's always valued stability, valued staunchness, valued stubbornness. It's what he looks for in a wife— someone to stand with him, work with him, live a normal life in a world without a war for as long as they both shall live. To Est, fifteen years old and tired of seeing blood when she closes her eyes, it sounds like paradise. To Est, eighteen and in love with a girl on the other side of an ocean, it sounds like a death sentence.  
  
Est doesn't have the ring he gave her anymore. It got stolen when she was kidnapped, she explains, and if she still had it she'd give it back to him. He understands. He typically does.  
  
"I'm not what you wanted in a wife," she says to him. They're in the mess hall the week after Est's eighteenth birthday, and they're talking like a pair of soldiers and not a husband and wife. "I'm not— I can't do that. I can't live one thing for the rest of my life."  
  
Abel swallows, and nods. "Alright," he says. "You told me you could."  
  
"Yes, when I was _fifteen_ ," Est snorts. "I barely knew my own _gender_ when I was fifteen, Abel. I shouldn't have expected myself to know what I wanted in life."  
  
"I guess I shouldn't have expected that either," Abel admits. "And, you know— I think your sister was right when she punched me."  
  
"It's not your fault, though," Est protests. "You were good. We were good, while we lasted."  
  
Abel shrugs. He sounds like he's given this a lot of thought. "I just didn't want to be alone," he said. "So I jumped at the chance to settle down with the first girl that'd meet me halfway. But you were too young, really. That's my fault." He twists off the wedding band around his own finger and examines the way it catches the light. "Of _course_ I got punched for it. If I had a sixteen-year-old kid sister and she tried to marry a guy eight years her senior, I'd punch him, too."  
  
His logic is sound. Est can't deny that the discussion she'd rehearsed in her head was much more emotionally cathartic— telling him off for pursuing it at all, because she was young and she didn't know better but he was so much older and he did but he did it anyway. But he'd figured that out himself, so there was no need to yell. Est is glad they don't need to yell, and she's glad he's a decent enough man to admit what happened was messed up, but she can't lie to herself and say she's not a little miffed for going off-script because she'd rehearsed an excellent and very dramatic comeback.  
  
He sets the ring on his flat, sweaty palm and offers it to her. Est looks at him quizzically, and scratches at the scruff on her chin that her razor didn't get.  
  
"You'll probably get more good of it than I will," he explains. "Maybe your new sweetheart will like it."  
  
Est flushes. "Word gets around fast," she mutters.  
  
"It didn't have to," Abel admits. "The heart on your armor says it all."  
  
He's got a point. Est grins sheepishly. She takes the ring and examines it. The braid of gold is small and understated, steady all the way around. Est's own had matched it, except it was slimmer, sized for her thin little fingers. 'Til it'd gotten stolen, anyway. It's probably been re-stolen and sold and re-sold and maybe it was sitting on the finger of some other woman. Est just hopes her marriage is better than Est's first shoddy attempt.  
  
Abel pats her shoulder like friends do. "Hope he's good to you," he says.  
  
"She, actually," Est can't resist correcting, a grin curling across her face when Genny appears in her mind. "I met her overseas. She's… she's something special. Not that I'd know. I'm just going with my gut." Her grin turns self-admonishing, and she shrugs.  
  
"Your gut's smarter than you think it is," Abel tells her. "It's leading you towards what fills you up. What could be better than that?"  
  
Est can think of a lot of things, but the way Abel says it, it feels less like just a statement and more like a metaphor. She supposes there's some truth to it. Abel's a pretty smart guy, after all. She chews on what he said for a while, until Abel shifts again.  
  
"I guess we weren't that great as a husband and wife," he admits. "Here's hoping we're better off as friends."  
  
"I sure hope so," Est replies, cracking a smile. Then she glances at the ring again, tosses it to herself, and tucks it into the pocket of her shirt. "Though I think I'll wait a while before proposing, just on principle."  
  
XXVI.  
  
Est's been a soldier since she was old enough to hold a lance. She signed on at ten, began training at twelve, saw her first battle at fourteen. It's been four years since she took a man's life— but for how young she is, it's not fair.  
  
Her new armor serves her well. As she leaves her awkward, gangling adolescence, grows into the size of her hands and feet, she grows stronger to bear the weight of it. She picks up heavier lances, fights with King Marth's army (but she knows her loyalty is to Commander Minerva first and whatever country second). All the while, Valentia waits, waits on the other side of an ocean she's crossed before. Sometimes she thinks on it, and her hand goes to the heart carved into her breastplate.  
  
The day of her nineteenth birthday, she pens a letter to Valentia that she doesn't send. She stuffs it in the recesses of her pack and decides she'll try again once she gets her words together.  
  
XXVII.  
  
She tries again. It goes better the second time. She can only hope the letter finds its way.  
  
XXVIII.  
  
The war ends, officially, as she's nearing twenty-two— twenty-two and a war hero three times over, an accomplishment most get only when they're past thirty. But she gets the little iron medal of service on its green ribbon, matching her first, and she clips it into the case and leaves it in the bottom of a box in the attic of the monestary. She doesn't like thinking about the implications of those medals much.  
  
But the war's over, and the continent breathes. Marth has said, with such conviction it's hard not to believe him, that this has ushered in a new era of peace, an era of rebuilding and stabilization. Est hopes he's right. But it's Marth, and by this point Est knows Marth— he's very good at getting people to hope for things most would've thought impossible, and more often than not, he's right.  
  
Est stays in Archanea long enough to attend Palla's wedding. It's a small affair, done on the grounds of the dilapidated stone building Lena bought for six gold pieces, an old tome, and a smile, but love floats so freely through the air that it makes Est's heart ache. And then Minerva hits her head on the wedding arch they make because (oversight of the century) they made it for people who are normal heights, not Amazonian giants bigger than most doorframes, and Palla throws the bouquet hard enough to bruise Catria's nose because she heard Catria muttering for them to _get on with it_ at the kiss that lasted until it got awkward. (Est doesn't think that's fair of her— knowing them, that's the first time they kissed.)  
  
Maria finds her after the wedding is over. The building— the monestary, at least that's what it's _going_ to be— is only barely liveable, but they're turning it into a home. Est leans on one of the overgrown trees and watches Palla rest her head on Minerva's shoulder while fireflies float through the grove. Est's never really thought about what'd happen if her sisters got married, but if it makes them happy, then she'll sit through all those vows.  
  
"Pretty wedding," Maria comments.  
  
Est hums.  
  
"Makes you think about that kind of thing, huh?" she continues, shifting on the balls of her feet. She's a foot shorter than Est, but Est's not used to seeing her look so much like a teenager. As far as Est's concerned, Maria's still eleven.  
  
"I bet you miss her," Maria comments.  
  
Est looks at her. "What?"  
  
"Your sweetheart," Maria specifies. "The one you got the heart carved for." Est's not wearing her armor— it's in a crate with her sisters', where it's supposed to be— but Maria's seen the heart as much as anyone else in the second war did. Est knows what she means.  
  
Est sighs. "Yeah," she admits.  
  
"You're gonna go back, right?" Maria asks. "To Valentia. I heard you were thinking about it."  
  
"You sure hear a lot of things," Est replies.  
  
Maria shrugs. "A lot happens in the infirmary, and I have better ears than the other healers." She has a point. Est grumbles admittance.  
  
"Maybe I will go back," Est says, watching her sister lean up, standing on her toes enough to brush leaves from Minerva's hair. Her eyes sparkle, every speck of tiredness Est's ever seen in them gone and replaced with love. The scars of three wars still remain— a new one that took a chunk of flesh from her ear, the one cutting the corner of her mouth that's not quite as impressive as the mess that twists Minerva's mouth into a permanent sneer. Others, hidden under the fabric of her wedding dress. Est doesn't remember the last time she saw Palla in a dress. It suits her, she thinks, more than her armor.  
  
"We'll miss you back home, if you do go," Maria tells her. She has her fingers knit behind her back. Est looks at her. She's grown her hair out, long enough she could braid it if she wanted to, but she doesn't. Est reaches over and musses her hair, and Maria protests, spitting loose strands of bright red out of her mouth. Est's never had a younger sister before, but Maria might as well be.  
  
"Can't have that," Est grins, while Maria puffs out her cheeks and glares at Est for messing up her hair. She pushes the strands back behind her ears, knowing full well they're going to move back and be a fluffy scarlet mess in seconds. "Guess I'll have to visit, then, huh?"  
  
"You'd better," Maria tells her, though there's no threat behind it, and it holds little weight anyway because Maria is seventeen and couldn't hurt a fly.  
  
"I will," Est promises, and it is a promise, because she can never lie to Maria— not even in jest.  
  
XXIX.  
  
She stays as long as it takes to prepare it all. By her twenty-second birthday, the monestary almost resembles a house— there's a garden and a chicken coop and a pen with two goats, and the roof doesn't leak that much, but that's because Minerva's up there every spare minute in her overalls (which Est will never, ever get used to seeing) hammering yet more wooden shingles on the roof and patching up all the gaps with tar. She claims it's because she doesn't want anyone to get cold when the winter rolls in, but Est figures it's just because she's reveling in having something to do that isn't killing people. But that's not her story to tell.  
  
She leans down so Palla can kiss her brow one more time, like they're young again and Palla's tucking her into bed. She preens, tightening the scarf around Est's neck and adjusting the buckles on her armor, making sure the spear and sword and hunting bow strapped to her back won't bump around in flight and hurt her or Pepperjack. Est doesn't mind, really— and Catria's doing the same thing. They preen because they love her, and that's one of the things that the war never could shake free from her knowledge. The sky is blue. Minerva is tall. Est's sisters love her. It's just a fact.  
  
But she's burning daylight. She already caved to Sister Lena insisting she should stay for breakfast, at least, and there were chores to help with after, so she couldn't just leave without helping out. Packing up Pepperjack and all her things took another hour. She's just glad she managed to convince them she didn't need to stay for lunch, too.  
  
Palla lets her back up and pats her cheek with her right hand. She's smiling, though Est's not fooled— she's definitely going to cry when Est's out of sight.  
  
"Fly safely," she says. "And keep your ears warm. You know how cold Valentia can get."  
  
"Sis, it's a continent," Est has to say. "It's got the same range of climate as Archanea."  
  
Palla rolls her eyes. "Smartass," she says, though there's fondness in her voice.  
  
"Don't stay away for too long," Catria says, moving back around to Palla's side. "Let me know when you come over to visit, so I can get leave from Marth and Caeda."  
  
"You're not staying?" Est asks, frowning.  
  
"Only 'til the monestary's fully up and running," Catria answers. "Not all of us quit being soldiers. I accepted Marth's offer of knighthood, remember?"  
  
Est whistles. "You're moving up in the world," she comments. Then she grins slyly and leans over, so only Catria will hear her. "Seems just yesterday you were only _unofficially_ warming the royal bed."  
  
Catria flushes and punches Est in the arm, below where her pauldrons cover. Est grins, though it hurt.  
  
"Don't antagonize your sister," Palla sighs. "I don't want you to leave on a sour note, Est." There's a twinge of truth to her voice that makes Est hold back from making another joke, that makes her grin apologetically.  
  
"I know, Palla," she says. "But at least this time I get a proper sendoff, right?"  
  
And she has a point. Palla shakes her head and rubs at her eyes with the heel of her hand. It's no wonder she's emotional— her younger sister, off to take on the world on her own, and her other younger sister leaving not long after to go be a knight in Altea. It'll be one big empty nest to fill.  
  
Minerva walks up then, and Est's still not used to seeing her look so oddly domestic— it's the green overalls and the hammer tucked into her belt loop. She stands with her back straight, carpentry gloves on like she's preparing to wage war on sawdust, and Est's first instinct is to salute.  
  
She clears her throat. Palla reaches over and squeezes her hand reassuringly. Minerva's not great at this whole _being part of a normal, functioning family_ thing. She'll work up to it.  
  
"I wish you a safe flight," Minerva finally decides. "And… thank you, Est. For your service to Macedon, and to me."  
  
Est nods solemnly, giving Minerva an informal salute with two fingers. "Thank you, too, Commander," she replies. "For shacking up with my sister so nobody else had to."  
  
Catria lets out a cackle. Palla slugs Est in the arm, the same place Catria did, but Est doesn't have it in her to do anything but snicker. She seems to have accomplished something that fifteen years of trauma and abuse and gaslighting and war could never managed— she's rendered Minerva speechless.  
  
Maria laughs with the rest of them, possibly because it's fundamentally funny to see the great Commander Minerva Drakon reduced to a flushed, sputtering mess because she's scandalized at the words of a twenty-something punk. But she reaches up and gives Est's hand a squeeze— for luck.  
  
"Don't forget about us here, okay, Est?" she asks. "Don't get so wrapped up in your honeymooning with your sweetheart that you forget you have a family."  
  
Est nods. "I won't," she promises. "On my honor as a knight, I swear I won't forget."  
  
Est doesn't realize there's tears running down her cheeks until she swipes at her eyes. Her heart beats raw in her chest and she thinks of home— sleeping in a pile in front of the fireplace with her sisters, tangled together to stave off the cold of the winter; passing around training tips in the yard and practicing a trio attack that'd leave all the other trainees jealous; riding into battle together, under the banner of Macedon and their Commander Minerva; polishing her armor while Catria stitched and Palla dozed; getting teased when her sisters learned about Genny but it was all in good fun because she poked right back. Est wasn't old enough to remember their parents when they were alive, even though she figures she had them— Palla and Catria are the only family she's ever known. And here she is, twenty-two years old and ready to strike out on her own, for real this time.  
  
"I love you," she tells them all, and she says it until she finds the strength in her arms to pull out of her sisters' embrace and swing herself back up into the saddle. And she clicks her tongue and Pepperjack starts into a run, wind whipping Est's braid back from her face, wings spread, the first heavy flap to flight and then home and Archanea's falling away, away— but it'll be there when she comes home.

**Author's Note:**

> catria is in a wonderful poly relationship with merric caeda and marth in this au sorry i don't make the rules


End file.
